The Dream Master
by Kyle the Skeptic
Summary: Stan finds himself trapped on the boundary between the dream world and the waking world. In order to free himself, he must first find himself. Can he defeat the demons of his subconscious?
1. Pursuit

**Author's Notes:** This is my first SP fanfiction in a while, and was co-written with SnuffSnuff. I will not be writing an FAQ for this fanfic unless one is specifically requested; you'll just have to figure out all the hidden references yourself. Be warned. If you don't like pithy philosophical musings, then you probably won't like this story.

* * *

"_When I consider this carefully, I find not a single property which with certainty separates the waking state from the dream. How can you be certain that your whole life is not a dream?"_

-Rene Descartes

* * *

Stan crashed shoulder first through the decrepit wooden door, legs flailing to keep his balance as he stumbled into the next hallway. Gasping with labored breath at the cold musty air, he pushed further into the inky blackness ahead. A trail of dark crimson steadily drizzled onto the moldy wooden floorboards in his wake.

_He's going to kill me. If I look back, he's going to kill me—or worse._

Stan cinched up the grip of his left hand even more tightly around where he had it clenched on his right forearm. His brown jacket sleeve was drenched through with a viscous stain. Above the ragged edge of exposed muscle protruded bone sliced clean through. A crescent flash of steel, and everything from halfway down his forearm was gone, cruelly severed at a sharp angle.

The hallway seemed to have no end in sight, twisting and reeling underfoot like the bowels of a giant serpent as the disorientation set in. Stan could almost taste his pulse in the back of his throat, throbbing along with the pounding in his eardrums and his heavy reverberating footsteps. Some distance behind him, a splintering crash resounded through the hall, and a deep rattling moan heralded the rapid approach of his pursuer.

Stan had no choice. If he continued to strain his leaden limbs to carry his weakened frame along, he would burn himself out in little time, and his chances of escaping would still be slim. If however he gave in to the numbness that sought to drag him down like metal chains, he would stand no chance at all. He almost found himself crying out to the uncaring nothingness, but there wasn't a soul in sight to help him.

The rattling moan drew closer, and Stan could almost feel the remainder of the blood in his veins turn to ice. A large ebony pair of double doors loomed at the end of the hallway. With a desperate lunge, Stan tumbled through the doors and into the large circular room beyond.

As the doors creaked shut behind him, Stan found himself in a large ballroom, consisting of tall elegant windows that stretched the full three-story height of the far side of the room. A pair of curved staircases flanked the room on either side, leading from the opposite end of the room to landings above the doorway. Outside, a thunderstorm rumbled across the night skies, pelting the windows with raindrops like bullets, and briefly sending strobes of lightning throughout the room.

Stan ran for the nearest window and drove his left fist into the lowermost pane, leaving a bloody smudge in his futile attempt to break his way out. There was a high ringing clash of steel against wood, and then another in immediate succession, as his pursuer aggressively slashed the double doors into pieces. If Stan were to escape, his only way out now would be up one of the two flights of stairs.

No sooner had Stan come within a stride's distance of the right hand staircase than the entire flight of stairs suddenly rose up into the air, as if the first step had stretched itself out vertically to twice Stan's height. His eyes darted across the room, where he saw that the other flight of stairs had followed suit. As perplexing as this was, he soon came to the stark realization that he was trapped. The dark figure blocked the doorway, and Stan could see that the hallway behind it now tilted upwards at an impossible angle. He could not get back out that way even if he wanted to.

The figure was cloaked in long robes, which melded with shadows and floated on the air like tattered wisps of darkness. A hood covered its face, though the heavy bloodstained scythe it wielded was a dead giveaway to its identity. "It is futile to run. You must know that by now." Its voice sounded like a spoken whisper in the back of Stan's own mind, with no discernable tone or character.

Stan turned so that his throbbing injured arm faced away from the figure, out of instinctive reluctance to ever show any weakness. The words slipped out, "What gives you the right?" sounding more forceful and defiant than he had intended. A spark of anger had found its way into Stan's mental fog. "What if I don't want to go along with you?"

"Then I'll just have to take what I need," the voice resonated again, as the figure pointed the gleaming blade of its scythe at Stan. Lightning flashed throughout the room once more. "It doesn't have to be this way. Make it easy on yourself."

It was then that Stan caught on. The terror in his heart was being exploited, purposely exposed like pages of an open book. He wasn't going to give the Reaper what it wanted, either way. "Easier for me or for you?" Hoping his gambit would pay off, he tried to buy himself some time by addressing the figure on equal grounds. "What are you hiding anyway? Or is that your job, to never show your face?"

"We can do this informally if you want." The Reaper held the scythe out in front of itself, causing an unfelt wind to rush over it and sweep back its hood and robes. The figure stood revealed as a young, yet decrepit looking man, with a pale face, sunken blue eyes over rounded cheekbones, ebony hair under a blue and red winter cap, and red gloved hands clutching its scythe. Stan found himself standing face to face with a taller, older looking version of himself.

"You're copying me," said Stan. It wasn't a question; it was a statement, and one with an accusatory tone. The fingers of his left hand trembled to remain gripped around his right forearm. Had he truly done this to himself? Had he been maimed by an outward manifestation of all the self-loathing built up inside?

"Don't act so surprised," the voice spoke, even though the doppelganger's lips did not move. "I am the last thing anyone sees before the end of their life, when it flashes before their eyes and the regrets of the past catch up. They always see themselves, and all the shame and failure within, even though it's far—too—late."

The Reaper swung immediately for Stan's neck, and would have connected had Stan not leapt back on seeing him lunge. Stan had neglected the fact that he'd been mired in debilitating pain and fear for his life. It was simply not in him to lie down and die. He leapt back again, and again, causing the Reaper to miss him each time, before Stan turned and broke into a run.

"There is no exit and no escape," sounded the voice. The Reaper raised its scythe over its right shoulder and brought it down at an angle, narrowly missing Stan's midriff. A thin slash mark was left in the surface of his jacket.

Stan glared and clenched his teeth. If he could somehow cause the Reaper pain, perhaps he could force it to back off. The scythe was an unwieldy weapon that would not work up close. He searched frantically for an opening among the wide, air-rending arcs of the scythe in missed attempts to separate his head from his shoulders. Swallowing hard, Stan pushed himself as close as possible, staring his doppelganger right in the eyes and feeling its icy breath brush over his face.

"Yes, embrace your fate," hissed the voice in the back of Stan's head, as the scythe was raised high overhead and brought down in a swiftly descending chop. Stan had no choice but to fall onto his back. The blade of the scythe had embedded itself in the floor through a layer of carpet, slicing clean through Stan's red poofball cap. The viciously sharp edge now rested tangent to Stan's scalp, as the Reaper struggled to liberate its scythe from the floor. "Give in to your true desire. You wish only to hurt yourself to make up for hurting others."

Stan felt a cold trickle run between his eyes as he lifted his head off the floor. "I'm bleeding," was the only thing that came to Stan's mind as he touched his forehead. He held up his wounded right arm to the light, and the sharp jagged edges of severed bone from which the raw flesh had begun to recede.

"I will not miss again," sounded the voice. With one final tug, the Reaper had managed to pull its scythe back out from the floor, staggering slightly.

"Neither will I," growled Stan, taking advantage of the second during which the cloaked figure was still off balance. He leapt at his attacker with the only weapon he had. The back of the Reaper's chest burst open from within, letting loose a torrent of blood. Stan stood with his left fist clenched, and with the bones of his right arm impaled right through the Reaper's heart to the other side.

The heavy scythe clattered to the floor, falling from the figure's grip. Its shoulders slumped and its knees buckled, while its chin and neck became soaked in vomited vermilion. Stan brought his foot up into the Reaper's chest and kicked himself off, driving the figure to its knees. Sputtering and gasping, it picked its head up one last time to sneer and gaze into Stan's eyes, only to fall without another word.

Lightning flashed throughout the room one last time. The heavy raindrops outside had abated. Stan breathed heavily, although he no longer felt on the verge of exhaustion. He looked down and kicked the dark cloaked figure with disdain. Turning his back to walk away, he wriggled his left arm out of its sleeve before slowly peeling his bloodstained jacket off towards his injured right arm, wrapping it around his forearm in a crude bandage.

His ordeal was over, for the moment. But where would he go from here? He was still trapped as far as he could tell. Stan tried to lift the Reaper's scythe with his left hand, thinking he might be able to use it to smash one of the windows and escape, but he could scarcely drag the massive weapon a short distance, let alone wield it properly. Attempting to reach the double doors or either of the staircases was out of the question.

"Nicely done," said a voice from somewhere in the shadows. This voice was different, jaded and deliberate, although sounding like it belonged to a small child around the same age as Stan. Stan turned in the direction the voice had come from and was a little surprised to see a blue-haired boy stepping into the moonlight. The boy had eyes almost the same color as Stan's and was dressed from head to toe in white footie pajamas. He gave a forced smile through a face as serious as his stiffly posed body, and stood with his hands held behind his back.

"What the?" were the first words that escaped from Stan's mouth. "Who are you? How did you get here?"

"I'm a friend," answered the boy. "Though I see you are still as lost as ever. I know how that can be."

"How do I know I can trust you?" Stan slowly took a few steps towards the boy until the two met at the halfway point. "What do you mean by lost?"

"Trust me, you can ill afford to turn down my help." The boy lowered his arms to his sides to reveal that he was carrying something in his right hand. "You have to be careful not to lose yourself in this place," said the boy, "Otherwise there's no telling what could happen to you." He held out the object and presented it to Stan. As Stan reached out to take it, he recognized it as the severed part of his right arm.

"Where did you find this?" asked Stan. The blue-haired boy simply nodded and gave an encouraging gesture. Somehow knowing what he had to do, Stan removed the bloody jacket from his right arm and lined up the severed wrist and hand with the ends of his bones. Right before his eyes, the bones clung and held fast, and the flesh surrounding the wound boiled like hot wax, swelling until it had molded itself in place. Mouth agape, Stan flexed the fingers on his right hand, and then pulled his jacket back on.

"I have been trapped in this realm for longer than I can remember," said the boy, recalling Stan's second question. His eyes drifted down to the right. "Perhaps a decade, perhaps a century, perhaps an eternity. I wish to help you because that is the only way I can define my own existence, to avoid fading like a long lost memory. If I can at least do that, then hopefully all the knowledge I've gained could be of some use to one who stands a chance of making it off of this world."

"This world. What is it exactly?"

"I can't answer that," said the boy. "Only you can discover that for yourself. I can tell you is that it's a place you've been many times before."

"A-am I dead?" asked Stan.

The boy shook his head. "Death is the end of thought, the end of the stream of consciousness. You have looked Death in the eyes without succumbing to it." He pointed to the dark cloaked figure, which now lay in a pool of blood, its crumpled body disintegrating into the shadows. "Most people gaze upon their own death and are afraid."

"I was," Stan admitted. "But I didn't…"

"You dealt with it on your own terms, rather than being a slave to fate," spoke the boy. "Most people waste their whole lives preparing for death. You however know better than that."

"How do you…?" Stan started. "You haven't told me. Who are you?"

The boy looked away again for a moment. "A fair question. I no longer remember my name. Names become meaningless after a while."

"Can you help me find a way out of here then?" asked Stan.

"There is always a door, if you know where to look," said the boy, passively gesturing towards one of the staircases.

It was then that Stan noticed a small solitary door in the far wall of the ballroom, hidden in the shadows beside the windows, at the foot of the left hand staircase. Why hadn't he seen this before? Had the door risen out of the ground along with the stairs? Half expecting it to be locked, he approached the new door regardless and tried the knob. The door swung open to an obsidian plateau that seemed to stretch out endlessly in every direction under the starry night skies. "This is all new to me," said Stan. "How do you know this place so well?"

The boy gazed off into the distance. "I once used to dream, like you do. I would visit fanciful worlds of magic and adventure, where my imagination was the limit. At first I was happy, being the Master of my own dreams." His brow fell and he stood with his side profile to Stan. "It was not meant to last. I have lived through my own demise, time and time again. That's how they all ended."

Stan was about to ask, 'What changed?' but decided not to press the matter.

"But I can't die here, because I have nowhere to return to," the boy continued, now facing Stan once more. "I don't want you to share the same fate. As much as I would selfishly like to have a companion again after all this time, I can't keep you to myself. You—do not belong here."

"Oh." Stan couldn't really think of much more to say at a time like this.

"For now, think of me as your guiding light in the darkness," said the boy. "Whenever you find yourself in this realm, rest assured I'll show up as needed."

"I still have no idea where we are," said Stan, slowly letting his eyes pass back and forth over the plateau.

"The places here cannot be found," said the Guide, "But they will find you when you most need them."

"What about the house I was trapped in? Are you saying I had something to do with what happened to me in there?" Stan turned and looked behind him. The large manor he had just escaped from stood in a magenta spotlight against the blackness, its image gently distorting and waving like seaweed in the tides.

"The house is always built from your state of mind," explained the Guide. "Large, complex, and labyrinthine, filled with doubt and uncertainty, sometimes holding you prisoner within your worst fears. Yet it can all be overcome."

"Maybe so," said Stan. "I'm still stuck here though. I just want to get home, more than anything else."

"I will show you the way," said the Guide. "That's what I'm here for." He took a step in a different direction. "Before you go though, would you care to join me for a bit? It's been so long since I've had a real person to talk to."

Stan gave the boy a confused look. "Join you? What do you mean?"

"I know this sushi bar that serves great fugu," said the Guide. "You won't find any other like it in this world."

"Uh, okay," said Stan, not wanting to be rude, even though he didn't care much for sushi. "I don't see how we're going to get there though."

"This way," the Guide beckoned him on, walking deeper into infinite void.

Stan strained his eyes to make out even the most remote details along the way, while trying to avoid losing sight of the boy. The next thing he knew, the plateau beneath his feet had given way to black asphalt. Stan took in his new surroundings, looking every which way to get his bearings. The glass and marble façade of a majestic Japanese restaurant stood before him amongst faintly visible surrounding buildings, which appeared as sketched white outlines against a grayscale background. It was still nighttime apparently, and the rest of the neighborhood resembled little more than a ghost town. "I—don't think I've ever been here before," said Stan.

"It's my favorite place," said the Guide. He pushed the metal-framed glass door open and ran eagerly inside, almost letting it swing shut in Stan's face, before hastening back to hold the door for him.

"Uh, thanks." Stan peered around the restaurant, which was likewise deserted, although the bar was still stocked fresh as though invisibly staffed. He and the blue-haired boy grabbed plates and began perusing the buffet. Stan picked up a few California rolls and took a seat at the end of an oblong table.

His Guide however had something more exotic in mind, as he set down the plates before taking a seat opposite from Stan. "Don't forget to try the fugu," he reminded Stan. "Oh yeah, I brought one back for you," he said, pushing the second plate towards his guest.

Stan picked up his own plate and moved to a closer seat to get a better look. The fugu, it turned out, were these strange inflated pink creatures with spherical bodies. They had stubby finlike arms, round nubs that resembled feet attached to their face, red dimples, black circular eyes, and large gaping mouths. "Uh…" He picked up his chopsticks, but could only stare at the fugu quizzically.

"Ah don't worry," said the Guide, "There's no risk of poisoning." He picked up a fork and stabbed the pink creature to deflate it, causing a 'thhppp-poyo' sound as the air rushed out, and then plucked out one of the eyeballs, using his butter knife to sever the springy connective nerve. "These are the best part."

"No thanks, I think I just lost my appetite," said Stan. He prodded at his rolls with his chopsticks before setting them down.

The boy shrugged. "Suit yourself," he said, jabbing his fork in and plucking out the other eyeball.

Just then, another voice called out from the darkness. "Stan? Stan, can you hear me?" It seemed to come from all around him. "Stan, wake up." Although he couldn't see who was calling him, he knew whom the voice belonged to right away.

"Listen, I'm sorry," Stan said to the boy as the light began to wash over his surroundings, "But I…"

The Guide nodded quietly. "I understand. You have to go now." Stan nodded back. "I'm sorry too, that we've had to cut our friendship so short," said the boy. "But I have a feeling we'll be seeing each other again." He rose out of his seat and waved goodbye, and then everything disappeared in an instant.

* * *

Stan's eyes slowly parted. He realized they were puffy and swollen. An oxygen tube rested under his nose, an IV needle stuck in his left arm, and his right arm felt heavy with a twinge of pain. The warm touch of a hand rested on his shoulder. He blinked and looked off to the right, as far as his neck brace would allow, into the familiar faces of his family.

"Stan, you're awake!" spoke Sharon, pulling him up into an embrace.

"How's my little trooper?" asked Randy.

Stan tried to speak, but his jaw ached and his mouth felt dry. "Where… When did you get here?"

"Try to take it easy, Stanley," said Dr. Gouache. "This is the intensive care unit. You've been in a car accident, and suffered a compound fracture to your right arm. I set the bones myself. Your arm should be fine, given enough time."

"My arm-" Stan noticed the plaster cast around his right forearm. "But they… Who were with me?" he mumbled half coherently.

"Your friends?" said the doctor. "They suffered some minor injuries and have just gotten out of surgery. Right now you need to worry about yourself and getting better, okay?"

"Oh, aright."

Sharon stepped aside to let Shelley by. "Shelley, isn't there something you'd like to say to your brother before we go?" she asked insistently.

Shelley rolled her eyes. She reluctantly reached over and gave Stan a pat on the shoulder, but then leaned in and whispered in his ear through clenched teeth, "Listen turd, if you ever let anyone know I have a soft side, I'll put you right back in the hospital, understand?"

Stan swallowed hard, tilting his head in a slight nod, in hopes that would be enough for Shelley. He let out a sigh of relief when she finally backed off.

"Your son appears to be in stable condition," the doctor explained to Stan's parents. "We'll have to run a few more tests. But for now, we should let him get some rest."

"Should I stop by the house and bring back your things?" Randy asked Sharon.

"Yes," she nodded. "I want to stay right here." She turned to Stan. "Don't worry, I'm not going…"

The rest of Sharon's words faded out in a resonating diminuendo. Stan felt a thick metallic-tasting stream welling up in his throat and trickling from the corners of his mouth, as the world became saturated with black fog. He did not notice his mother shaking him, or even hear her voice calling to him.

"Doctor, what's happening?!" shouted Randy, over the urgent beeping of the monitoring equipment.

Dr. Gouache leaned in and motioned for Stan's family to give him some room. "Blood pressure is dropping. His vitals are crashing!"

"Stan?" Sharon tried calling out again. "Stan!!"

But the darkness had once again taken him into its clutches.


	2. Deep Cuts

**Warning:** This chapter contains graphic violence.

* * *

Stan finally arrived at the school playground. He had missed the midnight bus once again and had to walk the whole way in the fog. It wasn't as convenient a schedule as he would have liked, but he didn't dwell on it too much.

His classmates were there as usual, gathered in a circle around him as they stood in the undisturbed snow with their hands held behind their backs. He hadn't seen them approach. His teacher must have sent them out to tell him that class was about to start. Stan had no reason to entertain the possibility that something seemed off about them, for he knew his friends would never hide anything from him.

The chill breath of winter brushed lightly against his cheek, causing Stan to shiver. Wasn't it time to go inside yet, and get out of this miserable cold? An uneasy prickling sensation crept up the back of his neck. His classmates remained stoically silent, glancing around as if trying to avoid making eye contact with him.

"Hypocrite!" a cry rang out behind him, right before Stan felt a shock of frigid pain shoot through his body, causing him to arch his back and flail instinctively. "You never showed me the proper respect!" shouted Craig, as Stan felt the knife carve through his soft flesh and scrape up against his ribs. The unwelcome mix of blood and freezing air began to rush into Stan's lungs through the wound.

Staggering, bleeding, and overcome by nauseous gagging, Stan turned to Wendy and reached out his red-gloved hand towards her. But Wendy took a step away, shifting her gaze and biting her lip. A second forceful impact wracked Stan with agony, like a boulder being hurled up against his skin, after Token had drawn his own knife and plunged it down into Stan from behind in a jealous rage. "You stole the love of my life!" Token snarled at him.

Stan tried to turn to face his attacker, but fell to one knee when his legs gave way. "No don't, I…" he tried to say to Token, but was interrupted when Wendy took out her own knife and stabbed it down through below Stan's left shoulder. Everything started to go numb, save for a dull torturous writhing sensation like a swarm of rats trying to gnaw their way out from inside his body. He fell to both knees, grasping the front of his chest with his right hand.

"Oh Stan," said Wendy nonchalantly, pretending nothing had happened. "It's nothing personal, but I've always agreed with Token."

Both of Stan's hands were now gripped over his heavy fluid saturated lungs, as tightly as the panic that he was on the verge of drowning had gripped his consciousness. Steaming blood gushed forth when he tried to cough, marring the snow with dark red spatter. Were these really his friends? Friends were supposed to be people who you could trust, who would share everything with you, and who certainly would never gang up on you over petty misunderstandings. How could his own friends do this to him?

Friends… The meaning of the word seemed as fleeting as the breath on his lips and the blood in his veins. The crowd gathered around him had faded into one large blur, while the dark ruddy stain slowly spread throughout the snow below.

"Stan, is something going on here?" a familiar voice called out.

Stan blinked hard and tried to focus. "Kyle? Kyle, where are you?"

"Stan, I don't know how to put this, but we need to talk," spoke Kyle in a firm tone, working his way through the crowd. He sounded shaken or upset over something, and did not seem to take notice of Stan's situation even when he was standing face to face with his longtime friend.

"Kyle," Stan wheezed. "It—it's you…"

"Look Stan, there's something I've been meaning to get off my chest," said Kyle. "I've been thinking about us, and how long we've been friends." He sighed. "It hurts me to come out with this, but sometimes I think you don't care about our friendship. You never stand up for me anymore, especially when the going gets tough!"

"But Kyle, I…"

Kyle shook his fists in frustration, his eyes wet with tears. "That's not something I'd expect my best friend to overlook so often!" With that, he drew back his right hand and slapped Stan right across the face.

Stan wiped his mouth on his sleeve and stared into Kyle's eyes, dazed, from his kneeling position in the snow. What was this all about? Was everyone now out to get him?

"Stan," Kyle started to say, "It's just that you and I have…" But before Kyle could finish, he was drowned out by the catcalls from the other kids gathered as they shoved him aside.

Clyde was the next to sneak up on Stan from behind, thrusting serrated cold steel into Stan's lower back. "You always looked down on me for being stupid!" he screamed. "I know you make fun of me when I'm not around!" He spat in feigned disgust. "You can be as subtle as you want, but I know what you really think about me!"

The blood now visibly cascaded down the side of Stan's heavy sopping jacket, pooling up beneath him faster than the snow could absorb. They had surely gotten what they wanted from him by now, hadn't they? It would not have made any difference if they had simply left him at that moment, for there was nothing he could do regardless.

He didn't even have the strength left to lift his head up when a fifth dagger ripped its way through skin and muscle and bone. "It's nothing personal," said Bebe. "I know you haven't really done anything to me, but I have to go along with my friends." She forced a smile. "I think you'll understand."

Another knife had found its mark, penetrating unusually deep given the one behind it. "Uh, well look, I'm sorry it has to end this way Stan," he could hear Butters say. "It's awful unfortunate, but I can't take your side in this one."

"I thought we had something!" cried the tense voice following the next knife, which was gripped tightly Tweek's trembling hands as it sliced through thick arterial walls with ease. "But you left me! Abandoned me! Forgot I even existed!"

Stan could scarcely tell the difference between the knives already embedded in his back and the series of stabs that followed. All had caught him blindsided. Like the knives, the mocking voices of his classmates, each making disingenuous efforts to rationalize their actions, had overlapped and run one into the next.

"You ruined my career, you ruined my life!" screamed a blond haired girl. "I'm sick of seeing you around!"

"You never pay attention to me!" he heard a high-pitched British accented voice exclaim. "You won't even speak to me anymore!"

"You've always had it in for me, I know it!" a red-haired girl accused him. "Consider the favor returned."

"Oh, but I expect you to flat out deny it all," spoke a haughty voice, to the derisive chuckles of his two dim-witted companions.

Stan was now on his elbows and knees in the thick crimson slush, floundering in a sanguine sea among the snow. His lips parted in a futile attempt to cry for help, but gobs of blood were the only thing that escaped. At that moment, through the blur and pink haze that covered his eyes, Stan could almost make out someone with a distinct blue head of hair standing at the back of the gathered crowd.

"H—llp…" he choked out. His pleas were nothing but a vaguely audible drawl.

"Stan." The boy could not be heard over the shouting and taunts of Stan's classmates, but Stan could see him mouthing words. 'You can't be helped'? Was that what the Guide was trying to tell him? No. "Only your true friend can help you now," he seemed to be saying.

Stan thought to himself, confused and practically delirious. What true friend? All he knew was that he had no friends. The daggers his friends had driven into him had gashed open his very soul. He tried to crawl his way towards the blue-haired boy, but every movement caused the knives to dig in deeper and deeper. With a tearing of strained muscle, he was completely spent. The frozen ground met the side of his weary-eyed face.

There would be no fighting back and no escape this time. His mind pleaded with fate to let him perish with what little dignity he had left. The ruby studded snow upon which he lay had at least shown enough decency to strike him in the face.

That—and one other.

There was one who stood apart from the frenzied crowd, never one to join in. There was one who stayed true to himself, and to Stan, at all costs. He was the only one Stan had left. With the last of his strength, Stan reached out his quivering hand once more. A green-gloved hand reached out to touch his.

"Kyle…"

Stan's true friend lifted him back up to his feet, where Stan threw himself over Kyle's shoulder, bringing himself close enough to feel the radiant warmth of his friend's face. One by one the knives retreated from his flesh, like harbingers of death fleeing from life, and clattered to the ground as harmless shards of steel. The crippling pain had faded into a dull throbbing shadow of its former self.

Stan finally found the strength to stand once again. Kyle smiled and gave him one last pat on the back. The deep wounds had already closed themselves over.

"Don't worry Stan. I'm sure we'll be together again one day," said Kyle with a wave, and then he departed.

The blue-haired boy was still standing where Stan had last seen him, now that the crowd had dispersed. "You're lucky to have such a devoted friend," he said. "I had thought you lost sight of him."

"I almost did," admitted Stan, still looking in the direction Kyle had departed.

"And how did you know?" asked the Guide, in a rhetorical sounding tone.

"I just…" Stan started. "It's like I just knew. He was the only one who faced me, and didn't try to hide anything from me."

The Guide nodded. "You value honesty then."

"Yeah," said Stan. "It's better to say what needs to be said, than to keep living a lie. I—I think if you have to make friends by lying to them, by pretending you're something you're not, then it can never last long."

"A noble sentiment," said the Guide. "It's rare that one understands and appreciates the true meaning of honesty. It's even more rare to find a friend who shares this understanding with you. It takes a real friend to say things to your face rather than stab you in the back."

"But then," said Stan, noticing that the Guide was still standing more than an arm's length away, as if he were afraid to make eye contact. "What about you?"

"Me?" asked the Guide, shooting a passing glance in Stan's direction. He gave a slight chuckle, holding his hands palms facing out for Stan to see. "I'm just really shy."

The final bell of the school day rang in the distance. It was time to go home. "Will I see you again at school tomorrow?" he asked the boy.

"You can count on me," said the Guide. "Remember what you have learned here."

"How could I ever forget?" Stan commented. The fog rolled in and condensed into a whitewash that faded everything out of sight.

* * *

Stan woke up in a different part of the intensive care unit this time. His body ached all over and the fresh bandages wrapped around his midsection were making him itch. He sniffled. Traces of dry crusty blood still lined the inside of his nostrils. A red intravenous line, leading from a transfusion bag, had been placed in his left arm. 

Out in the hallway, Stan could see Dr. Gouache conversing with a colleague. The other doctor, judging from his silhouette, appeared to be leaning on a cane. "It's never lupus," spoke the gruff-voiced doctor, before limping off.

Stan's doctor entered. "Stan? How are you feeling?"

"Wh-what happened?" asked Stan.

"You suffered massive internal bleeding due to your injuries from the accident," said his doctor. "We didn't catch it right away because it didn't start until you'd been moved to the ICU. You lost a lot of blood, so we're giving you a transfusion."

"Oh. Okay." He looked around. "Where're my parents?"

The doctor sighed. "Your father started acting loopy after donating a couple of pints. We insisted that he stay here and rest, but he insisted on going out for a drink, saying it would make him feel better."

Stan rolled his eyes. "Goddamn."

"Stan, I do have some good news," said the doctor, trying to change the subject. "Your friends are stopping by to visit you! They insisted, so…"

"Whoa-ho!" Cartman interrupted as he barged in, pointing at the bandages that covered most of Stan's body. "The mummy returns!" His own left arm was in a sling, which apparently was reason enough for him to gloat.

"Dude, shut up!" Kyle admonished him, following close behind. Kyle had a bandage wrapped around his head and was walking on crutches due to his broken ankle.

Kenny walked in on his own accord. He seemed only to have suffered a few minor bumps and scrapes, and had a small row of stitches on his forehead. He quietly patted Stan on the arm to reassure him.

"So you've been in here this whole time, the center of attention, you little pussy," Cartman mocked Stan. "I've heard you keep coming up with new problems for the doctors to fix, huh?"

"Cartman, I told you, shut the hell up!" said Kyle. "We came here to visit him, not for you to act like an ass, especially after all that's happened!"

"Geez Kyle, relax, I was just trying to cheer him up," said Cartman defensively. "So how many bones did you break?" he asked Stan with a smirk.

Stan wasn't really in the mood to deal with this right now. It was none of Cartman's business. "I'm fine, all right?" Maybe that would do it.

"Oh really? I overheard them saying the bones were sticking out of your right arm," laughed Cartman. "Now that must have been some sight." Kenny had begun to glare at Cartman.

"It's not funny, fatass," Kyle growled at him, trying to step in front of Cartman.

"Well excuse me for showing some concern!" said Cartman in a sardonic tone, before turning back to Stan. "So does it hurt when I do this?" He squeezed the cast on Stan's right arm. "How about this?" he asked, squeezing it again to elicit a response when Stan tried to ignore him.

"All right, that's enough," said Kyle. "How do you like it?" He lightly poked Cartman on the left arm.

"Ow!" Cartman yelped. "Ah-OW! OWWW! Weeeaahhhhhh!!" he began bawling at the top of his lungs, sobbing heavily for dramatic effect. "Meeehhm!" he cried, hobbling out of the room as fast as he could and grabbing his wounded arm as if he'd been shot.

Stan cracked a smile. "Thanks, I owe you for that."

Kyle laughed. "What are friends for?"

"Yeah," said Stan, recalling fragments of his dream. "Friends."

Dr. Gouache walked back in. "Okay boys, Stan still has a long road to recovery ahead of him. But you can visit later if you want."

Kyle grabbed his crutches. "Well, see you then Stan," he said.

"Hope you feel better soon," added Kenny, following Kyle out through the door.

The doctor unhooked Stan's empty transfusion bag. "That should do it for now. I'll be back to check on you in a little while." He pulled the curtain around Stan's bed and turned off the lights.

Stan breathed easily and listened to the hypnotic rhythm of his pulse monitor. He soon drifted back to sleep on his own. This time around, he hoped, things would be different.


	3. The Cave

**Notes:** This chapter is based on an allegory that dates back to 360 BCE.

* * *

The rocky underground passage seemed to descend endlessly into the depths of the earth. The scant daylight that shone in through the entrance far up the path behind him amounted to little more than a glimmering pinprick. Stan clicked on his pocket flashlight and aimed the dim spot of light at the gray rocky ground before continuing on.

His legs began to grow weary. There was naught to keep him company save the echoes of his own footsteps, the occasional water drip from a stalactite above, and the soft sound of his own breathing. Stan wasn't sure how or why, but he knew they had to be in here, trapped somewhere. He just had to save them; he owed them at least that much. He had come too far back to turn away now. Further ahead, down the last stretch of the winding slope, Stan could see the incandescent glow of a perpetual light source.

Stan finally reached the bottom of the path, which opened up into a small cavernous area. The glow had been coming from a television projector, stuck to a table that had been bolted to the ground. There didn't appear to be any buttons or switches on the projector, and the channel was playing on an endless loop, as was the audio track, which sounded oddly familiar.

"What the hell?" Stan immediately looked down. He had nearly stumbled over a thick bundle of cables and tubes running across the ground in a haphazardly arranged network. Tracing the cables away from the projector with his flashlight, Stan came across something completely unexpected.

Seated in a number of rows, bound to spike-covered Inquisition era torture chairs in front of a large projector screen, were the missing adults of South Park. Sharp wires were wrapped tightly around their wrists, ankles, and throats, digging into the skin and holding them fast to the arms, legs, and backs of the chairs. The adults also seemed to have red throbbing wounds on the tops of their heads, like raw flesh had been exposed.

Upon closer inspection, Stan could see that they all had the tops of their heads sawn off, exposing their brains, into which the bundles of wires and tubes were plugged. He felt himself reaching out to unplug them, but quickly stayed his hand, fearing he might kill them if he tried. Every few seconds, an electrical pulse and a rush of chemicals were pumped in through the wires and tubes respectively. Stan winced at the sight of this, but it almost seemed to make the adults calmer and more complacent. Could they not feel their own pain?

"Mom! Dad!" Stan tried calling out. There was no response from them or from the other adults. They were all fixated on the images on the projector screen, which appeared to be some kind of cartoon, although it was hard for Stan to tell what exactly they were watching because the picture consisted only of black silhouettes. "What is this?" He waved his hand in front of his parents' faces.

"Hey, down in the front!" Skeeter exclaimed all of a sudden, causing Stan to recoil.

"Yeah!" added Jimbo. "Don't interrupt us right in the middle of our Family Guy special!"

"Family Guy?" said Stan under his breath. He looked more closely at the silhouettes. He thought he'd recognized them, and at that moment, he realized he'd heard the soundtrack before too. "Uh…" Stan couldn't tell which was more bizarre, the state that all the adults were in, or the fact that they were focused so intently on the lifeless images. "Wait, which episode is this supposed to be?"

"Oh, it's the best of Family Guy!" said Sheila. "A special that includes all of their classic gags and sketches!" The cables and tubes shuddered, like a sick congested heartbeat was driving them. Red tinged drool trickled from the corner of her mouth.

On screen, it looked like Peter had banged his knee again, and was spending the better part of five minutes moaning and hissing repeatedly. The adults laughed along in monotone. Several of them began commenting on how doing something over and over again makes it funnier.

"But I thought you hated Family Guy," said Stan, thinking back to the debacle that happened not too long ago that drove the town into a panic.

"It's not so bad, once you get into it," said Gerald. "It's the best thing on TV right now."

That was an understatement, Stan thought to himself. It was the only thing on TV, period. The adults were held immobile, so they couldn't turn their heads to see their surroundings, and they certainly couldn't get up to change the channel, if that was even possible. "How can you watch this though? There's nothing to watch!"

"That's enough, Stanley!" snapped Sharon.

On screen, the perennially annoying Vaudeville Boys were interrupting another scene with their song and dance routine. The adults laughed blankly again, although less enthusiastically. A discussion broke out in the back row about the depth of these underused characters.

"Stan, why don't you take a seat and join us, like a good little boy?" Randy suggested blankly. "Come watch the funny shadows on the wall with us." Although the wires around his neck and the cables plugged into his brain prevented him from moving, Randy moved his eyes to indicate the empty seat nearby.

Stan noticed there was one more chair just about the right size for him. Rows of glistening spikes lined the seat and back, razor wires were coiled up and waiting to snare the arms, legs, and throat of their next unsuspecting victim, and the long needles at the terminal end of a bundle of cables and tubes stood poised to latch on to his head like lamprey eels. Stan bit his lip and took a step back. Something seemed oddly and disconcertingly familiar about the chair.

On screen, it looked like Peter was once again slugging it out with the Giant Chicken. Several of the adults began cheering on Peter, several more began cheering on the Giant Chicken. It didn't take long before the two factions were yelling at each other over who was right.

Stan clapped his hands to his temples and shook his head. "How the hell can you stand to watch such a stupid show? How is random cutaway humor funny anyway?"

"Look Stan," said Linda, "Just because you don't get it doesn't mean the rest of us can't enjoy it." The cable bundles throbbed once more.

"But wouldn't you rather watch something that satirizes real world issues with relevant topical humor?" asked Stan.

"Yeah, like Murphy Brown," said Chris. "Why don't you go blah, blah, blah the Ayatollah?" he said, reminding Stan of Family Guy's mockery of shows that feature topical humor. The other adults chuckled at Stan's expense.

On screen, Stewie was once again pointing his ray gun at Lois and threatening to kill her, while Lois calmly chided him for using naughty language.

"But shouldn't jokes be inherent to a story?" asked Stan. "Why can't they use deep, situational, and emotional jokes based on what is relevant and has a point? All Family Guy does is one interchangeable joke after another!"

This did not sit well with the adults. "Stan, mocking real world issues is very offensive!" said Gerald.

"Yeah!" added Randy. "If you make fun of the things that real people believe in, people are going to get offended, therefore nobody has a right to hurt the feelings of others!"

On screen, Peter was doing his annoying trademark laugh for no particular reason.

"Isn't that just taking the lazy way out?" asked Stan.

"Stan, random cutaway gags are better, because they're safe topics," said Jimbo. "I don't see why you have to offend people to get a laugh when randomness works just as well."

"Come on," said Stan, not wanting to back down. "This is the only thing that's on, and it's the only thing you ever talk about. What about the big questions in life: Why are we here? Where are we from? Where are we going? Don't you ever talk about serious issues at all, or anything that's going on in the world?"

"Oh, I don't see why we have to care about all that," said Sharon.

On screen, Stewie was interrupting Osama bin Laden, who had just spent the last five minutes screwing up his own terrorist video.

"See? There you go," said Chris. "They use topical jokes sometimes."

"But that has nothing to do with the war, or the motivations of terrorists, or the plight of the people who live in those parts of the world!" said Stan. He recalled the time he and his friends had stowed away to Afghanistan and met some of the local kids. "I liked the first three seasons a lot better anyway."

"You just don't appreciate randomness," said Skeeter, dismissively. Another pulse of electricity coursed through the cables, bringing a placid empty grin to his face.

"There's no such thing as random," Stan retorted. "I mean, everything is funny for a reason, right? We laugh at things because they're absurd."

Randy began struggling against his restraints, much to Stan's surprise. "We've had just about enough from you, young man!" His voice became uncharacteristically guttural and threatening. "Now sit down, shut up, and just watch the shadows on the wall like a good little boy!"

"I don't want to just watch shadows all the time!" said Stan. "And I don't see why we can't watch a more intelligent show than this!"

"Stanley, stop interfering and sticking your nose where it doesn't belong!" Sharon yelled at him.

"It's easy to see what you're trying to do! You just want to offend people and make them feel stupid!" Stuart accused him.

"No, it's not like that at all!" said Stan. "Besides, why would you be offended anyway? I could just as easily say the same thing about Family Guy! Don't you think that asking people to sit and watch it with you is insulting to their intelligence?"

"Hey, if you don't like it, you don't have to ruin it for the rest of us!" snapped Mrs. McCormick. She also began struggling against her restraints. The other adults followed suit, not seeming to notice the razor wires slicing and sawing back and forth against their bones as they tried to get their hands on Stan. The network of cables running through the theater was pulsating angrily.

Stan felt completely conflicted. On one hand, he hadn't come back all this way just to turn around and leave. On the other hand, he could think of no way to release the adults from their bonds without causing them excruciating pain, or risking his own life in the process. Although they could not move, they looked like they would tear him apart with their angry glares alone.

"You've gotta stop!" Stan tried to reason with them. "You're only going to hurt yourselves if you keep…" He sighed through clenched teeth, at a loss for words. His very presence was acting as an irritant and perceived as a threat to the people he was trying to save. How could they have misunderstood him to such a degree? He was a stranger in a hostile realm, and they saw him as nothing more than an invader.

"Stan, you're making a mistake." The blue-haired boy stepped into view from behind a wide stalagmite, his head bowed in contemplation.

"You! Thank God!" exclaimed Stan, frantically running up to the kid and grabbing him by the collar with both hands. "You have to help me get through to them! I have to save them!"

The Guide could only shake his head. "Stan, don't," he spoke in hushed tones.

"What do you mean, 'don't'?" asked Stan in desperation, shaking the boy by the collar. Tears began to cloud his eyes. "Look at them! We can't just leave them like this." He tried to force himself not to take his eyes of his parents and the other adults, but the deep-seated feeling of horrified pity he'd been repressing caught up with him nonetheless.

"Stan," said the Guide, patiently removing Stan's hands from his collar one at a time. He looked over in the direction of the long passage leading out of the cave. "Listen to me now. You need to walk away from this situation for your own good."

The adults all laughed once more in unison at the shadowy antics on screen, compelled by some conditioned reflex.

Stan tore his gaze away from the sight of them, blinking hard to wring the tears from his eyes. "I thought I knew them," he sobbed, resigned. "I thought they knew me."

"Let it go," said the Guide. "That's all I can say to you right now. Let it go." It was then that the Guide did something unexpected. He gingerly took Stan's hand and gave him an encouraging smile.

"I just never saw this coming." Stan began at a slow reluctant pace out of the theater area and back to the cave passage. "I tried to explain myself to them. I thought they'd understand. They're all adults, after all."

"I know you just wanted to do the right thing," said the Guide, "But people are often set in their ways. They feel that any criticism of what they do is the same as personal criticism."

"But it's not," Stan objected. He could not help but to keep glancing back at the theater and its rows of blissful occupants. "Telling someone their ways are wrong isn't the same as saying they're a bad person."

"I know that, but you have to learn that this isn't an ideal world," the Guide explained.

Stan hesitated again. "What if I just, you know, make sure they're all right?" He began to backtrack, but the blue-haired boy held on to his arm.

"You think they would even care?" asked the Guide. "Do you think you should…?"

As if sensing Stan's potential reentry into the theater, the small chair he had been offered before scooted around and turned towards him on its own volition. The cables and tubes running up the length of the seat back rose up and began to extend eagerly towards him like a mass of flesh-eating worms, with their long needles glistening in the light of the projector. The chair itself tilted and leaned forward so that its arms and front legs rested on the floor, as it undulated each of its rows of spikes in turn.

The message was clear. If Stan wished to return, he would have to do so on his hands and knees. He would have to become like one of them, pretend he was something he was not, and sacrifice every last bit of his integrity. Yet he remained frozen to the spot, no matter how much his mind willed his body to flee.

"We have to go," said the Guide with a sense of urgency. "Now!"

The boy gave a hard tug on Stan's arm, pulling him out of the way and into a dead run at the last second before the cables lashed out at him. "But I can't leave them!" Stan protested, even though he knew that turning back now was completely out of the question.

"Leave them!" the Guide insisted firmly.

Stan knew better than to argue this time. He sprinted up the passage as fast as he could. At the first glimmer of light from the cave exit above, the bundle of cables seemed to shrink away, as did Stan's lingering doubts. The path ahead grew brighter, and Stan found himself stepping back into his own footprints from before, when he had first entered the cave.

When he at last arrived at the entryway, Stan stopped to catch his breath. "I wish I could have done more. I wish I could at least let them know I'm sorry I couldn't save them."

The Guide sighed. "Like I said Stan, let it go."

"Yeah, let it go," Stan echoed. He walked the last few steps up the steep grade before adding, "I guess it wouldn't have done me any good to stay behind, and even if I could, nothing good can come out of arguing with them."

"Now you get it," said the Guide. "Sometimes you have to know the difference between a winnable fight and banging your head against a wall of stupid."

The cave entryway gave way to the dazzling light of the sun, which shone brightly overhead, and Stan was reunited with a long lost feeling of belonging. "It's good to be back," he remarked.

"You should consider yourself fortunate," said the Guide.

The rays of the sun grew brighter as they passed through the swaying branches of a tree by the lake. "I do," said Stan. His surroundings rapidly dissolved into each other and faded.

* * *

Stan awoke to a room into which the afternoon sun had peeked through the shades, cutting a bright swath across his face. He turned his head and blinked his eyes a few times. His parents were nowhere to be seen and the hospital was relatively quiet for once, save for the voice of his doctor discussing business down the hall.

"We'll just need you to sign these release papers," he heard the doctor say. "Yes, I know there will be a difficult road ahead. I understand, and we'll do everything we can to make it easier to adjust."

Was someone softly weeping? Tears of joy? It was hard to tell.

The doctor entered Stan's room. "Mr. Marsh. How are you feeling?"

"Where'd my parents go?" was the first thing Stan could think to ask. "I've been kind of worried about them." That was an understatement.

The doctor sighed. "Your father spent last night getting drunk, but since he'd just donated blood, well it didn't take very long to drive his count over the limit. I know this only because he ended up right back here afterwards." He chuckled to himself, possibly to ease Stan's anxiety by showing that he'd dealt with this before. "I'm surprised his liver didn't shut down."

Stan pinched the bridge of his nose and grimaced with his eyes shut. "Great. Just what I need."

"Stan, listen," said the doctor, taking on a more somber tone. "I thought you should know your friends have been released."

"Oh really?" asked Stan. "Yeah, I was wondering where they were today. I was just about to ask."

The doctor said nothing for about half a minute, while he pondered over Stan's charts. "Your condition seems to be stable for now. Maybe once you've recovered, you can arrange with their parents to visit them."

Stan was a little confused. "I what? Oh, right. Yeah, I can't wait to see them again. But why can't they just visit me?" That was a rhetorical question, he realized. It was a school day, as far as he could tell, and his friends were probably too busy. Stan rolled his eyes. "And I thought I was afraid of hospitals…"

"I'll give you some time alone then," said the doctor. "I have to stop in with your father, so I'll let your mom know you're up."

"Don't remind me," Stan muttered under his breath. He switched on the TV and began flipping stations, but there was nothing on that held his interest for long. He wished his parents had brought him a video game, or at least something to read to occupy his time. Stan couldn't wait to get well fast, so that he could see his friends again. For the time being, there wasn't much else to do but lie in bed and let his mind wander.

The days that followed grew lonely and felt like they dragged on forever, without so much as a word from Kyle, Kenny, or Cartman. Stan was not entirely alone, as his parents would occasionally drop by with his homework assignments, and to allow Shelley to verbally torment him when they weren't looking. His dreams were relatively peaceful for once, serving as a respite from the grim reality of the waking world. He spent most of them hanging out by the lakeside with the blue-haired boy, basking in the sun, observing the reflections of trees in the rippling water, and studying the shapes of the clouds overhead.

Things however would start to drastically change before long.


	4. Growing Pains

**Notes:** This chapter is a tribute to one of Crow's unfinished fics, and his upcoming collaborative project, as well as a taste of things to come.

* * *

Dusk had descended on the small mountain village, and the full moon glared down in all its prominent glory from atop skies of maroon and midnight blue. Stan found himself running once again, his clothes damp with heavy perspiration, his breath hanging in the air in puffs of hot steam. A ringing pain pierced his skull, running down the length of his spine to a point below his waist. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, and his skin crawled and burned as if he had been touched with a million live wires at once.

The change was upon him.

Stan willed himself to press on, as if he could somehow outrun his fate, but his body had a mind of its own. "Aaah! No!" He staggered to a stop, wrapping his arms tightly around his midsection and doubling over, unable to fathom what was happening to him. He could dredge up no memories of ever being bitten, or having been experimented on, or entering into a pact with the darkest of supernatural forces. How could this be real?

He clenched his teeth hard after an itch like tiny shards of glass embedded in his gums had spread through his mouth. Running his tongue over them, he felt pointy rows of sharp teeth and fangs that hadn't been there before. A scream escaped Stan's lips. The tips of his red gloves were torn through with tough claws that had erupted from his nailbeds.

The blue-haired boy stood before a snow-covered pine tree, wearing an expression that conveyed more intrigue than apprehension. Stan had never before felt more relieved to see the Guide. "What's—happening to me?" Stan demanded. "Why me? This doesn't make any sense!"

"Stan," spoke the boy, "This makes perfect sense. You of all people should realize that."

What was his Guide talking about? Had the boy completely lost his mind? "But how did this happen?" was the only thing Stan could think to ask. The burning sensation all over his body was too much for him to bear, causing him to tug and claw away at his jacket and shirt to quench himself in the chill night air. His skin and underlying muscles felt two sizes too small, and were being wrenched to the limit by his bones as they shifted and popped into the strange new form.

"Stan," the boy addressed him by name again. "This was bound to happen."

"I don't…" Stan started to protest. He fell to his hands and knees in the snow, but could barely feel the freezing ground below. "I don't understand!" Stan lifted his right hand out of the snow and screamed again at the sight of the thick dark pads that now covered his palm. Turning his hand over, he could only watch helplessly as his skin prickled and writhed underneath, and a dense layer of dark gray hairs crept across. The dark gray pelt spread in seconds, enveloping his chest and midsection as far as he could see. Stan's eyes widened as a third scream echoed through the evening air.

"Stan," said the Guide, "Change is inevitable. You have surely matured a lot since we first met. You are simply awakening to your true self."

"No…" Stan tried to say, but was caught short of breath, hyperventilating and straining against the curse that had taken control of him. Stan cried out pathetically when a heavy crunch shuddered through his bones. His limbs, spine, and ligaments continued to stretch and reform, telescoping outwards, while his muscles spasmed and swelled to keep pace. "I don't want to change into something I'm not!" He gave an agonized groan. "I don't want to become a monster!"

"You fear becoming a monster, more than anything else," stated the Guide. "More than death, or betrayal, or even losing the ones you care about the most."

Stan tried to nod, even as his fur covered neck thickened and extended. "I just want to go back to who I always used to be!" The tarsal bones in his feet grew until his shoes became uncomfortably cramped. His ankles had popped out of his socks and shoes, and tough pads formed under his clawed toes and where the balls of his feet once were.

The Guide shook his head. "Change is the only universal constant. You know this. It happens to everyone in some way or another."

"The pain, it's just…" Stan clenched his hands over his head and the fiery throbbing within the confines of his skull. He could feel that his ears had grown pointy and extended upward. "I can't take it anymore."

"Clinging to the past is what causes your suffering," explained the boy. "You must learn to accept yourself and your underlying nature, even if others cannot."

"A-acceptance?" asked Stan, trying to make sure he'd heard right through his own anguished cries. His rapid breathing slowed for a moment, and he slowly unclenched his hands from his head. "What do you mean by clinging?"

The blue-haired boy stood with his hands clasped in front and spoke with his eyes closed. "Do not fight it. Embrace who you are."

Despite his lingering reluctance carried on shuddering breath, Stan knew he had no other choice. Focusing on the Guide's words, Stan crouched in the snow, leaning forward on his hands to find the most comfortable stance to ease into the transformation. What if the pain was all within his mind?

He stretched out his limbs, taming the wrenching pain into a dull ache. Deep cooling breaths filled his lungs, tapering the intensity of his boiling blood to a burning fury within. The stabbing in his skull gave way to the sweet release of pent up tension.

Stan pitched his head forward, allowing his upper and lower jaws to extend. His ears folded and grew into two points atop his head. At the base of his spine, a gray fluffy tail sprouted and unfurled from his lower back. He arched his back so that his chest could expand from front to back, bowing into a long stretch so that his abdomen could assume its longer, more slender shape, as his innards shifted to fill the space. Instead of the excruciating ordeal it had started out as, the transformation had become liberation from the cramped tightness of heavy shackles as it finished running its course.

When at last it was all over, a dark gray wolf pelt now covered the entirety of his body. Stan rose to his hind feet and kicked himself free from the last remaining tatters of his human clothing, no longer feeling the chill of the night air. All that was left was the blue and red poofball hat over his ears. In a dazed state, he reached up and pulled it off, folding it up and placing it in the Guide's outstretched hand. He tried to speak, but wasn't even sure that he could anymore.

"Do you know who you are?" was the first thing the Guide asked.

Stan swallowed in hesitation. "Yes…" Much to his surprise, his voice sounded no different from before. "I'm Stan… Stan Marsh, or at least I used to be."

"What makes you think you're not the same person you always were?" said the Guide. "You still have everything that made you who you were, only now you have this as well. Think of everything you've learned. Think of how far you have come."

"So this…?" Stan gazed at his front paws held before his face. "This is who I am now? But what if I don't want this?"

"To return to the way you were before would be clinging," said the blue-haired boy. "To wish you could go back to your past self is not a solution, but an embrace of ignorance. Tell me Stan, are you still in pain?"

"No." He could feel his newfound strength surging through him like never before.

"You are more powerful than you've ever been, correct?" asked the Guide.

"I guess so. But I just don't want to be seen as a hideous monster."

The Guide waved for Stan to follow. "Come with me, I have something to show you." He led Stan up to the frozen bank of the pond and motioned for him to look at his reflection in the icy waters.

Stan knelt at the edge and peered into the reflective surface. "JESUS CHRIST, DUDE!" He recoiled at once and clapped his paws over his face in shame.

The Guide urged him on. "Stan, look again and tell me what you see."

Stan slowly crept back towards the edge and peeked out from between clawed furry fingers. Bright eyes of arctic blue amid a dark gray complexion met his own from beneath the surface of the pond. He saw a long lupine snout covered in ebony fur, and ending in a cold wet nose, as well as a pair of gray tufted ears with black point coloration. "I'm--not hideous?" he spoke slowly. Stan blinked to ensure the reflection as telling the truth.

He was a beautiful _loup-garou_.

"So what will you do now?" asked the Guide.

"I don't know," said Stan. "This will take some getting used to."

"You will, in time," replied the Guide.

Stan's ears perked up. He could hear the distant voices of the angry village mob that had chased him from their midst. The villagers had since had time to gather their torches, shotguns, and pitchforks, and they would soon be coming for him.

He looked back at the small mountain village. "There is nothing left for me there," said Stan. The mob voices drew closer. He knew what he had to do. Leaving behind his past attachments, Stan dropped to all fours and loped off into the woods to start his new life, with his own kind.

The Guide smiled quietly to himself and vanished.

Several minutes later, the angry villagers finally arrived on the site. All they found were scraps of shredded clothing and large wolf tracks in the snow, trailing off towards the conifer tree line. The tall shotgun-toting redneck leading the village mob spat and cursed in frustration. "Dagnabbit! We'll never catch him at this rate!"

"It's yer damn fault!" shouted a skinny unshaven villager with a torch. "You took too long to track him down! Now the werewolf is on the loose!"

"Someone think of the children!" an older woman in the mob cried out. "If we don't kill that beast, it'll make off with them in the night!"

"Besides, we don't take kindly to anyone who's different from us!" said a burly villager, waving his pitchfork.

"Yeah!" shouted another of the village women. "I just know that werewolf's been behind everything bad that's been going on lately!"

The lead villager turned towards the rest of the mob. "But he's long gone by now! We all came out here for nothing. So what in tarnation are we going to do now?" Without warning a shotgun blast rang out, and a scream could be heard from somewhere in the back of the mob. Apparently the redneck hadn't realized his finger was still on the trigger, or where the barrel had been pointing.

The skinny villager stared slack-jawed for a second. "That's a great idea! We came out here to kill something, so let's kill each other!"

"Yeah!" shouted the other villagers in unison, before they all turned their shotguns, pitchforks, and torches on each other. The angry mob imploded, shooting each other in the feet, taking turns gouging each other with pitchforks, and setting fire to everything within reach. Before long, the orgy of immense stupidity had taken its toll, and many of the villagers lay dead or wounded, thoroughly enthralled in their victory celebration.

Deep within the forest, Stan had found the place where he felt he truly belonged. He was now strong enough to handle anything life could throw his way. A melodic keening chorus drifted on the night air beneath the full moon.

* * *

"Mr. Marsh? Mr. Marsh, how are you feeling?" asked the doctor.

Stan yawned and stretched. "I feel a lot better now, thanks." He noticed his cast had been taken off, and there was a small bandage over where his IV had been taken out. He moved his right arm around for a bit.

"You've made a remarkable recovery, I have to say," said the doctor. "Your bones mended a lot faster than we anticipated, so we went ahead and cut that cast off for you. You should be able to return home in another day."

"Okay," said Stan. He didn't bother to ask what his parents were up to. If they didn't want to come pick him up, he'd walk himself home. He couldn't wait to get out and stretch his legs regardless.

"Take care, Stan," said the doctor.

As the doctor left, Stan could have sworn he saw someone else out in the hallway. Sitting on a bench across from his room was a boy with his face hidden behind the magazine he was reading. A tuft of blue hair was barely visible from over the top of the pages. Stan rubbed his eyes and blinked, but when he looked again, the boy was gone.

The following day, Stan woke up, feeling a little groggy. His family was there, standing beside his doctor. His eyes hurt as they adjusted to the light.

"Welcome back, Stan," said the doctor. "You gave us quite a scare."

"I wha…?" Stan's throat felt dry and his voice came out gravelly. "What're you talking about?"

"Stan," said the doctor, "You've been in a coma ever since you were brought in after that car crash. We weren't sure if you would ever wake up."

Stan sat quietly in bed as reality slowly sank in. "But I thought that… It just seemed so real."

The doctor checked Stan's breathing and pulse. "Those must have been some dreams you were having. You were talking in your sleep so much that we had to move you down the hall so you wouldn't wake up the other patients."

"Oh…" said Stan, somewhat embarrassed.

Sharon approached his bedside. "Stan, now that you're better, we can take you to…" She paused. "…Visit your friends. If you want, that is." Her tone was uncharacteristically somber.

"Uh, okay."

"Why don't you get dressed?" said Randy. "We'll be waiting for you outside."

The drive was the longest ten minutes of Stan's life. He was finally reunited with Kyle, Kenny, and Cartman once more. He knelt in the cold earth, still soft from being dug into recently.

The three gravestones before him were a decent, fitting tribute to his three best friends. He had been the only one who survived the car accident. They had already been gone by the time they visited him in his dreams. His mind drifted back to all the times that they had been together, for better or for worse, laughing and fighting and sharing in each other's struggles.

Stan wiped away a tear with the back of his hand. His will had been tempered, and his resolve had been tested. He had learned to let go when it was time to let go. He rose to his feet and bowed his head. With time, he would learn to navigate the ponderous chasm that had been ripped in his soul.

A much older gravestone, crumbling and covered with moss and lichen, caught Stan's attention. He took a closer look and noticed that, although the name had long since eroded away, the date was still legible. October 15, 1905 – April 30, 1913. The grave must have belonged to a child about his age. Faintly visible under the moss was a carved likeness of the child's face. Stan knew he had seen him before somewhere. There was something vaguely familiar about the boy's appearance.

Stan departed from the cemetery. A great many things had changed, yet life would have to go on. His friends had perished, but they were not gone.

He knew where he would be able to see them again.

**THE END**


End file.
